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Chapter LIV.

The drawing-room of the Brandon townhouse in Berkeley Square was a blur of understated luxury and breathless efficiency. With Lieutenant Matthew Wycliffe’s orders to ship out for Canada on the first of September hanging over their heads, there had been no time for the traditional wedding. Two Special Licences—secured only days prior through a flurry of connections and hefty fees, for which the senior Mr. William Wycliffe and Mr. John Willoughby both insisted on paying—lay open on a rosewood sofa table, their heavy wax seals anchoring the reality of the morning.

One happy result of having a wedding at home was that the guest list was expected to be a more intimate affair, and if any London relatives complained about being left out, the family was shielded from claims of social rudeness with the excuse of it having been a smaller affair.

It was happily a much better day by excluding the extended family. The parents and siblings of the wedding party were all included, but no one else except for a few exceptions of the Aylmers and Wrens and Mrs. Jennings. Though truth be told the Colonel could have been even happier if another gentleman had also not been on the list, but this was unavoidable. And Mr. Willoughby would very much have liked to share one pleasant, innocent exchange about the happy couple with a certain lady but thought better of it.

By half-past ten, the double ceremony was underway. The Special Licence allowed them to be married from the grand drawing-room of Berkeley Square, which had been transformed. The massive, gilded mirror above the pier table reflected a small, intimate gathering of family, and the two couples standing side-by-side.

Miss Brandon stood elegant and composed beside Lieutenant Wycliffe, who looked every bit the officer in his dark regimental coat, its brass buttons polished to a mirror shine, his white cravat tied with crisp precision. When Colonel Brandon placed Anne’s hand in his, the two men exchanged a silent understanding.

To their right, her brother, Mr. Henry Brandon, clad in a fashionable claret tailcoat and buff trousers, held the hand of his own bride. Edward gave her away. He laid her hand in Henry’s. He did it very gently and was very glad he had only to say I do, when asked who giveth this woman to this man, and was required to do nothing more than return to his seat next to his wife and hold her hand.

The ceremony began. They pledged themselves to one another before God and their families.

The whole of the situation settled over the room; this was both a joyous union and a looming farewell. Yet, when Matthew placed the pearl ring on her finger, Anne felt something settle within her. She was no longer preparing to marry him. She was his wife. And the anxiety of the upcoming Atlantic voyage was momentarily swept away by the shared triumph of the two couples. It was not long before they were pronounced husbands and wives.

The stiff formality of the ceremony was barely over when the atmosphere dissolved into a flurry of embraces, warm chatter, and a chorus of warm congratulations.

Henry stepped forward, a wide, easy smile breaking across his face as he clasped his new brother-in-law’s hand. “Well, Wycliffe—or Matthew, I suppose I must call you now—welcome to the family. You have officially bound a Brandon to cross the Atlantic. She will be the first of us to do it, though I do not think she will be the last.”

Lieutenant Matthew Wycliffe offered an appreciative smile, his hand lingering over his new bride’s fingers. “I only hope Canada treats her with half the gentleness she deserves, Henry. If it does not, I will make sure she is well taken care of in any case.”

Sarah turned from Henry’s side, her silk gown rustling softly as she reached out to embrace her new sister-in-law. “Henry and I expect monthly letters—filled with every piece of colonial gossip you can find. And I promise I will write faithfully to you, my dearest friend.”

“You shall have them, I promise,” Anne replied, offering a reassuring smile.

The double doors to the adjoining dining room were thrown open by the butler, revealing a magnificent wedding breakfast laid out on the long mahogany table; the morning sun streamed through the tall windows, glinting off the polished silver trays.

“Come now,” Henry insisted, breaking the momentary gravity by gesturing toward the dining room. “The butler has been guarding the Champagne like a sentry, and we cannot let our wedding breakfast grow cold. Matthew, lead the way.”

The small wedding party moved into the dining room, where the table was heavily laden with cold raised game pies, carved ham, and jellies, lobster salads, and an assortment of dishes that could have made the table buckle beneath its weight.

As the glasses were raised and the first cork popped, the anxiety of the upcoming voyage was momentarily buried beneath the clink of crystal, shared laughter, and the quiet, fierce determination of two couples ready to face whatever life may present them. They would make the best of it as long as they were together.

Sooner than their parents were prepared for, it was time for the couples to depart.

“Are you afraid?” the Colonel asked Anne in a quiet voice.

“A little.”

“Good. It means you are sensible.” He smiled. “And if I know my girl, you will find an abundance of new material to set down in ink and watercolour to keep you occupied.”

Anne smiled and embraced her father. “I believe you do know me very well! I am looking forward to just that!”

The Wycliffes’ carriage was off. They had two weeks before their ship departed. The Lieutenant had been granted permission to travel with his new wife on a packet ship from Liverpool, instead of the cramped military ships at Portsmouth. On leaving London they would stop halfway and spend most of their days enjoying the dramatic scenery of the Peak District of Derbyshire, before travelling to Liverpool where they would meet up with the Tregarths, who would join them on their journey, and their families to say their final good-byes.

Behind them was everything they had known. Ahead lay the sea, Quebec, the long journey through the St Lawrence and the lakes, military life, bitter winters, and the home they would make in or near Fort Henry. There would also be mornings beneath a Canadian sky, their own table, their own books, their own fire, letters from home, new friendships, perhaps children, and always the two of them.

“What are you thinking?” Matthew asked.

“I am thinking that wherever we go, as long as we are together, that will always be our home.”

He stopped and took her hand.

“And that I love you.”

“And I love you. Thank you for marrying me.”